


Down the Garden Path

by sasspan



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Concrit welcome!!, Gen, Kind of a style experiment haha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 17:26:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11582760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasspan/pseuds/sasspan
Summary: The day before she was set to jet off to Paris, Lila found herself sitting next to a stranger.





	Down the Garden Path

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this over a year ago...I think right after the Volpina ep premiered for the first time. There are some things that I don't like about it anymore, but also a couple things I still do, because this was kind of...an experiment? So critique is very welcome, ha. Also, if you can guess who the other character is...kudos!!

The day before she was set to jet off to Paris, Lila found herself sitting next to a stranger by the pool of the Westin Excelsior hotel in Rome. 

It was supposed to be for “only a few minutes” but her father had strolled off with the pretty concierge on his arm nearly half an hour ago. She had been content for a time, sunbathing by the pool—who knew how warm Paris would be this time of year?—but now boredom itched beneath her skin. 

Chewing the inside of her cheek, Lila studied the woman next to her. Adults were always a little tough. A little harder to read. Kids were easy because they were always so obvious about everything—what music they liked, what celebrities they admired, what books they were interested in. Grown-ups…not so much. You had to find an opening. A crack in their armor. 

The woman beside her was flat. Nothing about her jumped out. Blonde, of course, with a buttery tan; and wearing a tiny black bikini, so well fitted that it had to be custom-made. She was draped limply across her lounge chair like an overcooked spaghetti. Asleep? No, her hand was moving to adjust her oversized sunglasses.

It was warm today, but not overbearingly so; the afternoon sun had retreated to the hazy shelter of the clouds, and certainly wasn’t bright enough to need sunglasses for. Hungover, then, or close to it—you couldn’t tell past those tinted lenses. 

As Lila watched, the woman leaned over and dipped a hand into the purse that lay at the side of her lounge chair. She withdrew with a pack of cigarettes tucked in her palm and a lighter caught between her fingers. The lighter glinted. It was metallic, ornate, embossed with a twisting B. A little flame uncurled as the woman flicked it open and held it to the cigarette she had balanced between her lips. Her hands were beautiful, elegant—well-kept nails, nude polish—and an even color all across, except for a little bare strip of skin, just at the base of her left ring finger, that was a shade paler than the rest.

It was all terribly glamorous. The tan, the sunglasses, the lighter. But it didn’t say anything about the woman at all.

“Signora,” called someone. Nearby, at the entrance to the spa, a pool boy was waving. “Your private room almost ready.”

The woman flicked her hand dismissively. “Yes, all right,” she said, and brought the cigarette up once more. 

There was an odd inflection to her voice. A French lilt, Lila realized, and there it was; an opening. 

She put on her prettiest smile, leaned over, and said in her carefully practiced French, “What part of France are you from?” 

She searched for a flicker of movement behind the sunglasses—a raised brow, a widened eye—and found none. The woman’s face remained smoothly impassive.

“Alpes Maritimes,” the woman replied in a bored sort of voice. “Up near Nice.” 

Not exactly an invitation, but Lila took what she could. “How interesting! I’m going to Paris tomorrow myself. Study abroad program, you know. Honors. Special position.”

“Is that so,” the woman intoned, inspecting her perfect manicure. 

“Yes,” said Lila. “I got a lot of other offers too, of course, but Paris wanted me especially. I even received a personal request from the mayor himself.”

That got her attention. “Is that _so_?”

“Oh, yes.” 

“Paris, hmm,” the woman mused. “Which school will you be attending?”

“Collège Françoise Dupont,” Lila replied smugly. There was no reason to lie; Françoise Dupont was as prestigious as they came. “I had my pick of any school I wanted but, well, the principal’s old family friend—”

“Mmm, yes, lovely,” deadpanned the woman. “Will you be staying in Le Grand Paris?”

Lila spluttered, reddened, and quickly recovered. “Yes, I, um. Obviously.”

“Lovely,” the woman repeated. “What floor?”

Trapped, Lila flushed once more. The highest floor would have the best rooms, of course, but she did not know how many stories Le Grand Paris had. “T...top floor,” she said finally. 

It was a weak answer, and the woman seemed to know it. She smiled—it was not a nice smile—and brought the cigarette to her lips again. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked in; fumes curled from her nose, like a dragon’s. When she blew out, it was in a delicate, smoky stream aimed precisely at Lila’s face. 

“Sweetheart,” she said, her voice honey-sweet, “a little advice? Don’t try to sell what you can’t afford to buy.”


End file.
